


Hey

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Cuddling, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-07 03:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6783958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She can hear his breathing before she's got the door fully open.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Furiosa can hear his breathing before she’s got the door fully open. Max is sitting by the desk, straddling the bench as if he’d planned to climb off it but got stuck. He’s trembling, panting hard, lurching back from the sound of the door opening. His eyes are wild in the glimpse she gets of them before he looks away, gaze as shaky as the rest of him. 

“Hey,” she says, as gently as she can, moving slowly towards him. She lets the door fall to, but doesn’t bar it. “Max?” He flinches at the sound of his name. Okay, it’s a bad one. She walks slowly to the long bench, perches on the other end of it. He doesn’t react, so she risks turning, lifting her leg over so she can sit facing him. 

“Breathe through your nose,” she tells him, voice as calm as she can make it. She counts her own breath in her head, in and out, hoping to give him a pattern to latch on to. She has no idea what set this off; it’s been a while, and she can’t see any obvious triggers in the room. After the last really bad attack, he’d needed to leave the Citadel, driving into the desert, away from the stone walls and the crowds of people. She refuses to think, away from her. He came back after thirty-six days, clear eyed, with wasteland news and salvage. He’d clung to her with hunger and something like apology; she tried to make him understand that she only wanted the first.

Max is flushed and wet-eyed; he can’t keep his gaze steady but still looks like he’s staring, fixing on one possible threat after another. His shirt is already dark with sweat. He licks his lips, then closes them. His breathing sounds even harsher through his nose, still far too fast and shallow. 

Some things get harder. The first time she’d seen him spooked, waking in the cab of the war rig, she’d known exactly what to do. Now she longs to comfort him, but it’s best if she can keep it neutral. 

She goes on counting in and out, regular as she can, until he starts to ease off. She stretches her feet forward, overlapping his. He twitches, but doesn’t flinch, so she lets her legs relax, resting against him. His breathing is definitely better, his eyes still darting. She shifts a little closer, hands resting on her thighs where he can see them. Very slowly, he slumps forward until his face is against her shoulder. 

They sit like that for a while, breathing carefully. When she’s sure he’s calmer, she puts her arms tentatively around him – nothing too tight, nothing caging. He burrows against her, damp forehead pressed to her neck. She swallows back an urge to cry. Usually, she loves the scent of his skin – even when he’s come back filthy from the wasteland, his heavy musk has done something for her. Now his sweat smells thick and sour with panic, his whole body proclaiming its wrongness. She pulls him closer, stroking her hand slowly up his neck, through his hair. 

After a few minutes, he sits up – sweaty and exhausted, but more in control. Furiosa reaches for the ration stash she keeps in the desk drawer. She tears a couple of vegetable bars and some lizard jerky into small pieces, putting the dish and the water canteen where they can both reach them. Max eats reluctantly – which is another sign that something’s wrong – but gets a fair amount down. 

“Would you like to wash?” His soaked clothes can’t be comfortable, and skin contact is good, if he can bear it. She’s learned that he craves touch, however skittishly he sometimes reacts to the idea of it. He goes boneless with pleasure when she strokes and pets him – not just for sex, though he likes that too. She hopes he’ll be able to sleep soon, and to be honest she’d rather he was clean before getting into bed. She’s relieved when he finally nods. 

She goes to bar the door, bringing back the jug, bowl and cloth. She leaves Max to take his clothes off, so that he can control the pace of it. As he undresses, she wipes him down with slow, even strokes. She thinks he gives a little sigh when she rubs the wet cloth through his hair, scratching at his scalp through the fabric. She brings him his sleeping clothes, briskly changes into her own. 

When he gets into bed, he sits up against the wall, still too wary to lie down. He looks up, steady enough, to meet her eyes, and moves his arms a little. He’s not quite opening them to her, but he’s trying. She moves towards him, then realises that will mean climbing onto him, or at least blocking him in. Neither is a good idea in his present state.

“Can I –” she nudges him. He shuffles up to let her sit behind him, her legs either side of his. She rests her hand and her nub at the sides of his waist, nothing enclosing. He relaxes back against her, reaching down to pull the blanket up over them both. Furiosa strokes her hand through his drying hair. She smooths down his cowlick, smiling when it springs back against her fingers. He smells better, more like himself.

“Furiosa?” It’s the first thing he’s said since she came into the room, voice rough but not too shaky. 

“Mmmm?” She keeps stroking, feels him lean into it. When he doesn’t say anything else, she thinks maybe he’s used all his words for the moment. He moves his hand to her nub, cradling her elbow. Lifting her arm, he wraps it round his chest, presses it closer. She goes on stroking his hair, feeling his heart beat steadily under her forearm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Mapmaker](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5131148) by nanda (nandamai) suggested Furiosa liked the smell of Max just back from the wasteland. 
> 
>  
> 
> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


	2. Chapter 2

Max wakes, and wishes he could sleep for a week, for a whole moon cycle. He’s bone tired, muscles aching as if he’s been in a fight. There’s a nagging sense of worry in his stomach, his mind groping for something it doesn’t want to acknowledge.

In the night, he and Furiosa have both shuffled down the bed. He’s lying beside her, one arm across her hip, his head against her ribs. She’d been cradling him when they fell asleep, because he’d panicked. That’s it: the memory hits, and he wants to groan. The weariness and the sinking feeling are worse for knowing what caused them.

He knows this morning is better. His accusing dead have gone. He can look up without meeting the eyes of a bloody face, without fear of being taunted by Glory. What’s left is a different kind of dread, the fear of it happening again, of the damage he’s caused and may yet cause.

In the desert, it can take him days to get past a bad panic. He remembers times he’s spent lying in a hot car, licking up water as the sun moves erratically past, with patches missing from the progression of day to night. Or the times he’s just driven frantically away. He knows he’s more vulnerable to attack when he can’t think straight, when he can’t tell if the pursuing vehicles are driven by the living or the dead.

Today, he’s heavy and exhausted, but he’s not shaking and he hasn’t lost time to anything but sleep. He knows that he had food and water last night, that he calmed down. He also knows – though he moves carefully around this thought, because it’s frightening in a different way – that he was cared for. Without thinking, he presses closer to Furiosa’s side.

She wakes up with a startled noise. Max pulls away hastily, knowing how bad it can be to be shaken awake. The feeling of doing harm is back. Her arm lands firmly on his shoulders.

“Hey,” she says. “Don’t go anywhere.” Max stops wriggling, lies still. Furiosa slides down the bed until they’re face to face. “Hey,” she says again, softer. She rests her hand against his cheek, kisses him.

Max leans into the kiss. The clouded sense of dread hasn’t gone, but he wants to meet her touch. She moves closer, arms around him, pressing small, soft kisses to his mouth and cheeks. It’s gentle and lazy, nothing heated. He strokes his hand over her head. He loves her short hair: the way it reveals her strong, elegant bones, how soft the bristles are against his palm. Their bodies slide easily together, her thigh slipping between his legs.

His cock is soft, his body tired and unresponsive. With an apologetic noise, he makes as if to move downwards. She wraps her arms more firmly around him. “You’d be asleep before you got there,” she says, with a hint of amusement, and kisses him again. They lie like that for a moment, not quite settled. Max shifts a bit, easing the weight off his bad knee.

She prods him, encouraging him to roll over. Max grunts at that, obstinately presses his face to her shoulder before giving way. He doesn’t want to turn away from her, but the muscle ache is affecting his leg as well as the rest of him. She moves to lie against his back, her nub tucked around his chest. He sighs when she presses her lips to his neck, more nuzzle than kiss. 

Furiosa ducks her head, rubbing her cropped hair against his neck and shoulders. It tickles for a moment, and then all he can feel is the softness of her hair, the warmth of her scalp. It’s so unexpected, and so good, that he lets out a surprised rumble. He sounds like a cat, he thinks, a purring animal from the before times – and realises that she must have looked like one, butting her head against him. He makes another pleased noise. 

He knows he barely spoke to her last night, remembering the choking effects of fear. He clears his throat.

“I, mm. Like that,” he says, voice scratchy. 

“Yeah?” she says, a smile in her voice. She kisses under his ear, then rubs her head against him again. 

Max is torn between the sweetness of it and the shadow of last night’s memories. There are things he should say, things he isn’t sure how to say. 

“It’s okay,” she tells him. “Sleep. Get some rest.” His eyes are already closing as she curls herself against him.


End file.
